Paper Heart
by whathobertie
Summary: What if Cal had never returned from Afghanistan back then? Leaving her on her own, forcing her to go on without him. (AU from 'Secret Santa') Cal/Gillian, drama.
1. Crushed

**TITLE:** Paper Heart**  
GENRE:** Drama**  
CHARACTERS:** Gillian, Cal, Emily, Zoe, Torres, Loker**  
PAIRING:** Cal/Gillian**  
RATING:** R**  
SPOILERS:** None**  
WORDS:** tbd**  
SUMMARY:** What if Cal had never returned from Afghanistan back then? Leaving her on her own, forcing her to go on without him. AU from _'Secret Santa'_.

* * *

**Crushed**

—_This is not me  
I was never cut out for this scenery  
I'm just a paper boy  
Your crushed paper toy—_

It took her milliseconds to know something was wrong, minutes to catch her breath, days to understand what had happened, weeks to stop crying, months to move on just the slightest, and years to finally accept that he won't ever return.

Every step of this timeline was paved with pain. Excruciating, agonizing pain right to the bone, the marrow. It was a relief when it got more dull and numbing over time, but it was still pain she felt every day and every night. And every second in between.

Yet life went on—it had to. It wasn't life as she knew it or life as she had imagined it, but there was also something that told her to not surrender; to take this pain and make something of it. The best she could or the best she had hoped for. Maybe it was the voice of him left inside her head, gradually becoming more and more quiet, until she couldn't even be sure anymore how his _loves_ and _darlings_ exactly sounded. Life became lifeless, but it somehow went on.

Some memories drifted away—like the melody of his accent, the exact transition of colors in his eyes—some remained painfully close.

She remembered the kiss on the cheek. The last words. The scent of his cologne as he drifted away from her to a place she didn't want him to be in. She remembered every detail of it and at the very same time she was so afraid of forgetting it all. It was a fear that kept her thoughts swirling, her memories going back to these painful places over and over again. Every day, never resting. _Bye, darling._

She was glad for every minute she could concentrate on something that wasn't him or their shared past. Not the good times or the bad, the Group, the cases, the war, the laughter, the devastation on Emily's face. She celebrated those minutes, though she didn't even realize it. They just were, they happened. Only afterwards she could see the preciousness of those moments. And then there was him again.

She was lost in one of those rare moments, scribbling something in a case file, listening to the birds finally taking up their hymns again in the warm spring air, when a knock on the door brought her back to reality. She looked up and cleared her throat quietly before Sarah opened the door.

"Somebody from the CIA for you," she explained with some worry in her voice. Her eyes studied Gillian's face for a moment, making sure it was alright.

She gave her a sign of approval and nodded tentatively. "Thanks, Sarah."

The man who entered was tall and upright, making her otherwise spacious and light-flooded office seem instantly smaller somehow. His confident stride was elegant and he stopped right in front of her desk. She remembered those days. Instead of walking around the desk, she however remained on the other side, keeping her distance. She got up, but she wouldn't shake his hand. In fact, he didn't even offer it.

"Dr. Foster, I'm agent Cole. I have something that requires your attention, I'm afraid." The last part was just a vain phrase. He wasn't really sorry.

She put her fists on the desk and didn't blink. "I'm not taking cases like this anymore. You and your bosses should know that."

He seemed unimpressed. "I have to ask you to come with me." He looked at her sternly, not giving anything away.

"Is it a matter of national security?"

"You could say that." Something about him seemed off, but she couldn't exactly pinpoint it. There was nothing in his voice she could use and his features remained unmoved.

There was some silence on her part, thoughts running through her head. "Can I see your identification?"

He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. "You might want to call Andrew Henderson for verification." The way he said it was smug and loaded with disapproval.

She'd known Henderson for a long time, but she also didn't want to lower her guard and run for the phone. "What if I'm not coming?" she simply asked instead.

Cole shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing then." He grew more intense at that point, giving her an earnest look for the first time. "But I think you should come."

"Where will you take me?"

"I can't tell you that now. But you'll see."

"Will I be allowed to leave once we're done? Today?"

"Absolutely. You're free to go."

She looked out of the window for a moment, watching rays of sunlight tangled within the blooming tree in front of it. She breathed in and thought of the past again. Of how it used to be. Of how it became. Of how it ended. She thought of the pain and the promise to move on.

Then she breathed out and took her purse, leaving the office and letting Cole follow. She was still good at this game, maybe even better. She had almost forgotten about that part.

Out in the hallway Sarah was still waiting, the door to her own office open. The look on her face was still concerned, but she relaxed a little when Gillian came closer.

"I'm helping the CIA with something. I'm sure it will be okay, but just in case: Can you give me a call at six? If I'm not picking up, let someone know." She made sure Cole heard her words.

Sarah nodded dutifully, but not convinced that everything was going to be alright. Maybe it was paranoid, but Gillian felt she had every right to be suspicious and not trust people and organizations she used to work for. She had lost this trust a long time ago.

"Take care, okay," Sarah said and Gillian gave her a small smile.

Again, she left the building first, letting Cole trot behind her like a beaten dog. The day was even more beautiful outside, but with her stomach twisted into a knot she couldn't enjoy this just as much as she might have wanted to.

"I guess we're taking your car then?"

Cole looked at her, but this time he was almost amused. Not in a nasty way, but maybe admiring her for her strength and attitude. "You can take your car. Just follow me."

She was a little surprised about that, but she got in her own car and trailed him as requested. After some minutes she was sure that they were indeed going to the CIA headquarters in Langley. He could have just said so, but maybe it was part of the game.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly while they went through neighborhoods and then along the river. She had no clue what this was about and maybe she didn't want to have one. One of the things she did after _that day_ was to mostly eliminate surprises from her life, so being in this unfamiliar situation she not only felt anxious but also utterly unprepared. This used to be her life; now it was alien.

But there was still some Gillian Foster left inside of her. _That_ Gillian Foster.

Cole showed her to a parking space right in front of the building. This time it was him who went first and brought them both through security gates and checkpoints until they ended up in an elevator going further down into the earth.

She didn't like the air she breathed, or what it reminded her of for that matter.

"So, you're going to tell me now what this is all about?"

"Just a moment," he put her off and gestured her to follow once the elevator stopped and the doors opened to a long corridor with harsh, artificial light.

By now she was getting tired of this game and just wanted to know what she was needed here for. Maybe it was wrong to get entangled in a potential mess like this again, when all she wanted was to get away from these things and live her life as quietly as possible. She wasn't even sure if her abilities were still sharp enough to help them at all. Catching liars and criminals was something she had left behind. It was important for her to focus on the good in people again, so that's what she did now instead.

He led her deeper into the corridor and she could see several rooms left and right, some of them with open doors, looking like scarcely-equipped interview rooms or maybe even places for holding suspects. She was wary and grew more suspicious with every step she took. There was no one else here except the two of them.

Cole stopped in front of a closed door, his eyes checking her out in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.

"I wanna know what this is about," she reinforced with a voice as strong as possible.

Cole didn't react and just opened the door slightly; not enough to allow her to see anything inside. He looked at her again with the same intensity he had shown in her office earlier. The one that made her cringe and question her choices.

"Let me know if you need anything," he simply stated without giving any further instructions and she looked at him confused, brows drawn together.

She didn't understand at all. "What am I supposed to do here?"

He stepped aside and walked away, taking the same way they had come. Gillian followed him with her eyes, unsure of what to do next. She was angry for being treated like that. Angry for having to deal with people she had deliberately chosen to get away from.

For a moment she thought about running after Cole, but in the end her curiosity got the best of her. Cautiously she opened the door further and almost expected to find an empty room, but that was not the case. It was everything but empty.

She froze in time and space. Her life might have stopped right there, in this cold and uninviting room a few meters below the ground. "No no no no no no…," was all she could say and repeat over and over again, until it felt like a mantra to calm her down.

This was not possible. It simply wasn't.

_"Hey, love."_

His face was soft, attempting a smile, but she could see that he was struggling just as hard as she did. Struggling to understand, struggling to grasp any clear thought, struggling to deal with all those feelings that were washing over them all at once with the intensity of a broken dam.

"No no no no no…," she just continued helplessly and tears sprang from her eyes. Her purse had fallen to the ground and she was covering the shock on her face with her hands. Eventually she closed her eyes and buried her face deeper in her hands, sobbing so much she didn't think she could ever go on breathing.

This couldn't be real. _He _couldn't be real. It was the worst nightmare by far, because of the intensity she felt. An intensity that suddenly overwhelmed her so much, thoughts about dying ran through her head and choked the last bits of air out of her lungs.

It was just seconds later when she felt his hands on her wrists, pulling gently. She let him do so and allowed him see her face again. He smiled bravely. _I'm so sorry_, he formed with his lips, but the words wouldn't come out.

This was real—she knew this now. Knew it the second she looked into his eyes and suddenly remembered the different colors, the small darker spots and their exact position again. She knew it then, but it didn't make it any better, because four and a half years were still lost and life just wasn't life anymore. A cold sweat formed on her skin and she found it hard to concentrate.

He enclosed her in a tight, tight hug, not saying anything, but just holding her. Her sobs went on and she reckoned he sensed when her knees threatened to give in. He held her even more firmly and slowly guided her to a cheap plastic chair. When she sat down, darkness came over her for a second and didn't let her see. When the light returned her ears rang with unbearable noises and she didn't know where she was.

Helplessly she looked at him, only to find him slipping away from her. "Can we get some water in here?" she heard him say closer to the door and eventually he returned, pulling the other chair next to her, sitting down and taking her hand. The tender caresses of his fingers made it a little better.

He smiled that soothing smile again. "You're having a panic attack, darling. Just breathe." He didn't tell her everything was alright, because nothing ever would be.

"I don't understand," she said and sounded like a little broken child.

"I'll explain," he replied and it was the moment when Cole entered the room with a glass of water that he put on the table in front of her. His eyes seemed to say that he was sorry for this charade earlier. When he left again, he closed the door.

She drank the water in small mouthfuls and felt the chill of it calm her down a little. Her heart had stopped hammering against her ribcage, but the shock still engulfed her. She looked down at the place where their hands touched fondly.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes." She nodded, but she still felt queasy.

Cal looked at her for a long time and pain marked his face. "I'm sorry it had to be like this. The operation is still classified. They're trying to get out another man."

She shook her head as if he didn't make any sense. "You're dead."

He looked taken aback for a moment, but his features softened again. "I certainly hope I'm not. I wanted to see you before that ever happens."

There were so many questions in her head. So many that she didn't even know where the hell to begin. The sheer vastness of the hole opened inside of her threatened to knock her right into the next panic attack. More—this time silent—tears ran over her cheeks.

"It's been over four years", she mumbled and wished so much for this to be a happy reunion instead of this mess. She couldn't explain her feelings, only that she felt the loss for the first time in its devastating entirety, which was incredibly weird after all this time of constant pain.

"I know." His voice was quiet and he looked down at their hands as well. "We'll make the best of it."

She didn't know if she could.

He sighed. "You were right. I shouldn't have gone to that place. Should have listened to you and spared everyone the pain."

She wondered who exactly he meant with _everyone _and it reminded her of something. "Where is Emily? Are they bringing her here?"

"I saw her yesterday. In Boston." A tear ran down his cheek now as well. He quickly wiped it away. "They said I could only see her until this is all over, but I begged them to let me see you too." The look on his face was heart-breaking.

"I'm sorry for acting so weird," she said and felt bad about not being as happy as she should be. The thing was, that she was so utterly unprepared for this, because she had been adamantly sure those last few years that this moment would never come. She had given up. She had given _him_ up.

"It's just shock, darling. Nothing to be sorry about."

She ran a hand over her face and looked at him again with fresh eyes. He looked a little unfamiliar—clean-shaven, hair freshly cut, slightly thinner and oddly sun-tanned. More gray in his hair as well. Still, he looked better than she would have imagined.

"Did they hold you in Afghanistan all this time?"

"First there, then they brought me to Pakistan with a short detour to Tadzhikistan, and back to Afghanistan again. Quite the globetrotter, eh?" He tried to make light of the situation as much as he could.

She remembered. She remembered _him_.

"I'll tell you everything."

"I wanna know everything," she confirmed. "Are you allowed to leave?"

"I'll have to talk to Henderson."

She nodded, somehow relieved. "Good. Then we're going home."

He considered this for a moment. "Do I still have a home?"

"With me you'll always have a home."

A grin spread on his face, revealing the all too familiar wrinkles around his eyes. "Is that taken right out of a sappy romance novel of yours?"

"Probably." She smiled for the first time since entering this room as well. "It's also true."

"I can see that."

Maybe they could make the best of this mess.


	2. Rearranged

**Rearranged**

—_And nothing has changed  
Only paper landscapes ripped and rearranged  
By an angry girl  
This torn paper world—_

He had offered to drive when he saw her shaking hands on the steering wheel, but she had bravely declined and smiled as if nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong, though.

They had driven on, not saying a word to each other while the lovely spring day outside passed by.

Now he entered her townhouse somewhat cautiously, not with the same swagger he used to own most places with. The house was still the old one, but some things about him seemed to have changed. Tentatively he went into the hallway and took a look around until his eyes met hers again.

"Still the same," he said and smiled.

"Still the same," she agreed. Not many things were.

She closed the door and was reminded of the few times he had sought refuge here. Times when he had popped up on her doorstep unexpectedly, head hanging low, maybe a little drunk, but always defeated. She saw the same kind of defeat in his posture now, mixed with insecurity and the strange feeling that he didn't belong.

It broke her heart to see him like that and it broke her heart even more that she felt so cold and numb.

He held up the plastic bag somebody had handed him at Langley. "I do own a toothbrush, so you don't have to worry about that one." He grinned. "I don't own much more, though."

"That's alright. We'll get you some stuff. A toothbrush is a good start."

She smiled and closed the distance between them. For a moment she hesitated, but then she hugged him the way it reminded her of back then. He didn't quite smell the same, there was no rough stubble that irritated her skin when he brushed his lips against her cheek, but his arms around her, her hand at the nape of his neck—it felt like in the past again. Set back to happier times, if only there wasn't this gaping hole ripped between them.

"I missed you so bloody much," he murmured and held her even closer.

"I missed you, too."

There were some tears again and she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her blouse when she eventually let go of him. "If I had known you'd be coming, I would have put less makeup on this morning."

He smiled and a certain glow returned to his eyes right in that moment. "I always thought this smudged makeup look was one of your best ones."

She nudged him gently and laughed through her tears, the unfamiliar sound filling the house. She still felt oddly detached from this world and reality, but it slowly came to her that this was really him and that there finally might be a chance at life beginning anew again.

"I'll get us some water," she said and made her way to the kitchen. "Or do you want something stronger?"

"Better not." From the corner of her eye she could see him entering deeper into the living room and taking in all the familiar and unfamiliar things.

She drank a glass of cool water right next to the kitchen sink already, remembering the panic that had flooded her earlier. Her knees were still weak, her hands shaking slightly, and a headache was beginning to take over. She filled her glass again, took a second one out for him and joined him in the living room.

He was standing in front of a small, antique bureau she had gotten from a garage sale in the neighborhood two or three years ago. He was looking at the picture standing on it—the frame the same dark oak as the piece of furniture.

When he noticed her standing behind him, he looked at her lost and somehow hurt. It was just a fleeting moment and he quickly took the glass from her hands to cover his tracks, but she saw that something was going on inside of him.

He took a sip and pressed his lips together, looking at her again briefly. He didn't ask who _he_ was, just went on examining other objects as if nothing had happened.

She didn't know what to say either, so she just let him slip away. She told herself that it was normal to be awkward; that they had lost four and a half years and that it would need time. It was the certified psychologist in her, the doctor, the rational one—but the emotional mess she was just wanted to crawl under the covers of her bed, cry herself to sleep, and wake up again to a world that was just as he had left it back then.

He stood still for a moment as well, seemingly pondering something in his head, before he turned around to her again and tilted his head. "I can get a hotel room, you know. I'm sure the CIA can get me one. Don't wanna be in your hair or anything."

It hurt a little, she had to admit. "Don't be silly! Of course you're staying here."

The ringing of her cell phone ended the unpleasant situation. She went back to her purse by the door and got the phone out. It was Sarah and Gillian looked at her watch. Couldn't have been more on time.

"Hey you."

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, everything's good," Gillian confirmed.

"What was this about?" Sarah still sounded concerned.

"It's pretty complex. I'll tell you tomorrow, okay?" They were instructed to still keep it to themselves, at least until the night was over. Apart from that, she probably wouldn't have been able to explain this all over the phone anyway.

"Okay. Are you sure you're alright?"

She realized that she probably didn't sound alright. "I'm good. Thanks for calling, Sarah."

"I'll see you tomorrow. Don't bring any creepy CIA agents."

She laughed and imagined Sarah's face while saying it. "See you then."

Cal seemed to have frozen in the spot where he had already been standing when she left the room to take the call. He looked at her intrigued, but at the same time like it was none of his business really. She assumed, however, he had overheard the conversation.

"Sarah and I run a practice together. This Cole guy seemed a little suspicious to us, so I asked her to give me a call later and make sure I wasn't swallowed from the earth by the CIA." She didn't really think about her words before they came out.

It amused him a little. "What are you specializing in?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Mostly back to child psychology."

"Good."

Nervously she fidgeted with the still wet hem of her blouse. "You heard about the Lightman Group?"

"Yeah, Em told me."

"I'm sorry." She looked down, then back at him. "I couldn't do it."

He sensed her discomfort and came closer again, signifying her to sit down on the couch with him. She did so and let out a sigh she had held for quite some time.

"Don't be sorry, I understand."

Tears welled up in her eyes again and she just wanted it to stop. To be done with the feelings and the past and everything that made it so impossible to get up every morning. "I really tried to. I really did."

He comforted her by taking her hands in his, squeezing gently. "Em said you were doing great. She seemed proud of you for holding out for so long."

"It just wasn't the same without you."

The truth was that she had tried to keep it just the same and failed miserably. She had carried on with the cases, she had fulfilled all the contracts, she had kept in touch with all the important people. She was tough, straight, business Foster that everybody admired. The one that caught liars by daylight and smoothed out the books by night. She had done it all.

She had also forgotten about herself. And it came back haunting her.

She remembered the day when Emily had begged her to stop and simply let go. It was not weak, she had said. Just brave.

"I don't blame you. It was only a company," he said matter-of-factly, interrupting her thoughts.

"It was something you built. Your dream."

"I have other dreams now. None of them include surrounding myself with liars all day."

She believed him, but she couldn't forgive herself. The months full of turbulence and exhaustion came back to her mind, ending with an ambulance ride to the next emergency room. She wouldn't tell him that.

"Rader tried to buy me out, but I wouldn't have it. He tried to charm me into giving in and promised me this rose garden of working together." She smiled at him through tears.

"No respect for the dead, this tosser."

"When he realized I wouldn't sell to him and just close the company, he made every employee a gracious offer. Nobody took it. He was furious."

Cal laughed with this little nasty undertone. "Serves him right. You trained them well and he should have known who he tried to pick a fight with. Remind me to give him a call sometime soon and spook him a little."

Her hands were still caught in his and it finally started to feel like they belonged there.

"How did Emily react?" Gillian asked carefully, not ever forgetting the horror on the girl's face back then, when she had to witness the end on a live camera feed and couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"Seem to give everybody a panic attack these days." He smiled, but it was an incredibly sad smile. The smile of lost years and lost opportunities.

She almost didn't dare digging any further. "She's the most incredible young woman I know," she said instead.

"Em told me that you helped her with getting into Harvard." He seemed grateful.

"I just cross-read some papers and made sure she had good references. She got in because she deserved it."

He nodded and was silent for a moment. She tried to see if it was because he was fighting back tears, but then she felt it was too intrusive to be looking for that. She had a vague idea of what it felt like to have the bond with your own flesh and blood, with the love of your life just being cut off.

"Did she tell you that she started out with psychology?"

"No, she didn't."

"I guess she wanted to pay some tribute to you, maybe continue what you've started. But it became too painful. She switched to environmental studies later. I think she's happy with the choice. She seems pretty enthusiastic about it."

"She did seem happy," he confirmed even though it probably wasn't the whole story.

There seemed to be a lot of things unspoken of, that dangled in the air between them. Again, she told herself that there would be time. Time for addressing all those things, all those questions. Time to make up for time lost.

He might have thought something similar, the way he let his head hang low, not looking at her. She noticed a scar beginning on his neck, running down further and disappearing somewhere under his dark blue button-down shirt. He looked exhausted and his seemingly neat appearance couldn't hide it any longer.

"You know, you might actually own more than a toothbrush," she said softly.

He looked at her doubtfully, but definitely interested.

"The house was sold about two years ago, but Emily and I picked out some stuff and rented a storage unit for it." She had given him up, but maybe not entirely. She did not have the heart to simply separate his belongings into things to throw away, things to give away, and the odd thing to maybe keep, so that's what they settled on instead. "We can have a look sometime."

"Yeah, we should." Some surprise still lingered on his face. "For how long were you going to keep it in storage?"

"I don't know, I hadn't set a date. Maybe until I died and somebody sorting out my legacy found out that I own a storage unit with weird men's stuff in it."

His smile made her feel better. "Would have loved to see that scene. Pity I came back early and will reclaim all of it."

"You know, I'm pretty sure we'll find a set of jeans and a black sweater somewhere in there."

"You just made going there sound even better." He smiled some more and drank the last bit of his water, his eyes shortly going back to the bureau in between sips. Silence again.

"Cal?"

"Yeah?" He looked at her.

"What happened to you out there? What did they do to you?"

His face grew serious, but he was still trying to soothe her with his eyes. "I'm okay, darling."

It was a lie, that much was clear.


	3. Sparked

**Sparked**

—_If only I knew that your spark  
Would set fire to my paper heart—_

He had fallen asleep on the couch while she prepared some dinner in the kitchen. She almost didn't dare waking him once she saw him lying there, limbs tangled with several cushions in a way that probably only he could do it. It was the first really peaceful moment and she wanted to hold on to it.

Later he apologized about a dozen times when she woke him and put the plate in front of him on the small coffee table. No need for fancy dinner arrangements. Also no need for apologies she insisted, but he kept on saying what a bad guest he was after four years of not coming over at all.

She prepared the guest room while he was eating, him asking her again and again if she didn't want anything as well whenever she hurried through the living room. She didn't feel like eating, but settled down next to him when everything was done. She stole something off his plate and he smiled at her like he was proud.

They watched the news on television together and he commented on some surprising world developments, but left the room in silence when footage of war in Syria took up the screen for a little too long.

She didn't know if she could stand hearing what had happened to him.

"Let me do that tomorrow," she told him after following him to the kitchen and studying the way he put the dishes in the washer.

"No, no, it's alright." He continued and only turned around again when he was done. He looked at her intently, head crooked. "Are you sure it's alright if I stay here?"

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

He seemed to consider saying something for a moment, but just shrugged his shoulders then.

"I prepared the spare bedroom now, so somebody has to stay in it. If it's not you, I'll have to grab a random stranger from the street."

His smile was genuine and deepened the lines around his eyes. "Can I use your shower?"

"You better do."

He took some steps through the kitchen and stopped right next to her. "You know, I did shower once or twice while I was there." A smile still lingered on his lips. "Do you still own that rain shower head thing?"

"I do."

"Wouldn't want you to think I only came back for that, but it's definitely a pro."

She went with him upstairs, gave him some towels and inspected all the different bottles of shower gel, bubble bath and shampoo with him, until they found something mild enough to not make him smell like a girly bouquet of flowers. He laughed at all the things she owned and it felt good to see him so carefree. But she also wondered whether he was just glad that she didn't actually own anything for men.

When he emerged from the bathroom some time later, dressed in some casual things from the bag he had brought, she was already in her bedroom. A book was in her hands, but she had barely gone through four pages and couldn't really say what they were about.

The door was open and she could hear him walking along the hallway with bare feet. He peeked around the corner of her room.

"Goodnight then, I guess." He sounded wary.

She tried to give him some kind of smile, but it felt incredibly exhausting to do so. His words kept repeating in her head and she didn't know what kind of emotion he saw on her face in the end. "Goodnight."

He walked away and looked as confused as she was.

Soon enough it was all dark and quiet. And soon enough she cried into her pillow, silent sobs and a heavy heart.

All of this had gone wrong. All of it. Not even with him being back here she could be happy. She didn't understand it and she felt guilty. Guilty for not being relieved, for not smiling all over her face, for being distant and reserved instead, for breaking down in this desolate room earlier, for having practically abandoned him as a dead man.

And guilt only made her cry harder.

She fell asleep at one point, but it wasn't for too long. The red numbers harsh against the gloomy darkness of her bedroom read two seventeen when she woke up again. Her eyes felt puffy and her head still ached. She decided to get some water downstairs in the kitchen.

Strangely, she could already sense him from afar. Sense the way he was sitting on the small bench next to the window. His shoulders were slouched and he stared out of the window into the darkness of reality. A glass of water was in his hands as well. Absent-mindedly he stroked his left thumb over the rim of it.

She slowly walked over and sat down in the small space next to him. He wasn't startled—not now and not earlier when she had entered—so maybe he had sensed her as well.

"I have a bad case of PTSD." He stared down at the glass in his hands. "Just thought I put that out there, so you might feel a bit less alone in what you're feeling. Or not feeling."

Brutal honesty—she remembered that from him whenever desperate times needed it. This surely was one of those.

"I wanna be happy," she replied and only confirmed what he had already seen.

"I know. I wanna be happy too, but it just doesn't work like that. Doesn't mean I'm not glad to be here with you." There was a reassuring smile in the vague moonlight and he searched for her hand. When he took it he squeezed gently and so did she. "I'm trying to deal with it."

He was falling apart too—and yes she had seen it, but also closed her eyes to it, because just dealing with her own emotions was one hell of a struggle already.

He was silent for quite some time, still circling one thumb over the cool glass and the other over her warm skin. In her mind she went through some of the intimate moments they had ever shared, but barely one had felt so consoling like this simple touch.

However, he had to ruin it somehow. It was the way it was with them.

"So who's the guy?" he asked.

"Who do you mean?"

"You know exactly who I mean. Guy from the picture. I might have been a practically dead man the last few years, but doesn't mean I have lost my distinguishing ability to be jealous."

She sighed and almost involuntarily removed her hand from under his touch, but he held on to it quite stubbornly. "We're not together anymore, I guess."

"You guess?"

"He's working a case in New York. Has been for over a month. I guess he's not coming back."

"Lawyer?"

She nodded and looked down. It felt wrong discussing this with him. She remembered his last words all to clearly, before he had left for a case he could have simply declined. _You cannot live in the past forever. You have to move on._ I have. _I don't think you have. Clearly not from him. I'm sorry, Gill, but I can't do this._

Then he went away like Cal had back then. At least she didn't have to watch the explosion this time. Just her own heart breaking again.

"You know, I wanna say something mean and tell you what a fool he is and recount all my bad lawyer experiences with Zoe, but that wouldn't be fair, now would it? I'm sorry, love."

"Yes," she just said quietly. It wouldn't be fair. But she didn't really believe in the concept of fairness anymore.

He gulped down the last bit of his water and got up to fill another glass for her. She had forgotten for what she had come here in the first place, but now that he handed her the glass she remembered. A lot of memories flooded her mind actually—a bit like they came all at once during her dreams; bizarre and distorted, yet never entirely untrue or wrong.

"They told me you were dead," she said. "They sounded so sure. Said there was evidence and that they had witnesses. I wouldn't believe them in the beginning, but then I somehow accepted it, because there was nothing else left to believe in."

"Everybody else in that place died in the blast or the shootout that happened after it. I was stuck under some rubble which might have saved me initially, but they found me soon enough and reckoned I could come in useful. They didn't know who I was, but they found out."

She understood what he was saying. That his abilities had probably saved him, but that he was also used. She didn't want to imagine what that encompassed.

"They burned all the bodies. They burned all my belongings too. Maybe that's the evidence they were talking about."

She considered it for a moment, but it always came back to the same thing. "They lied to all of us. They should have told you the truth about Walsh and the deep cover operation. You should have gotten all the information before you went there and then you would have been in a position to decide what to do." She was still desperate to find the blame after all those years.

"I agree. They were wrong to hold back information. But I might have still gone. I might have still gotten into that attack."

It reminded her of what he had said earlier. _You were right. I shouldn't have gone to that place. Should have listened to you and spared everyone the pain._ But he was who he was. Would always be. Everything might have happened in exactly the same way had there been no lies involved.

It somehow let her heart sink even more, because if it wasn't the Pentagon, the government, or every other shady authority figure she could blame for all of this, then who was there to blame?

"It was a game of betrayal for everyone involved," he concluded grimly.

She wondered if he felt like having betrayed her as well by going to this place. He must certainly feel that way about Emily.

"How did they find you? Get you out of there?" There was so much she wanted to know—needed to know—and so little she could take.

"Pure luck. The CIA was looking for another POW in connection with a group planning an attack and they found me. I was relocated to this place they stormed just a couple of days earlier. The man they were actually looking for wasn't there anymore. I've never seen him." He toyed with his fingers now that he didn't have a glass of his own anymore.

"So they really did think you were dead."

"I suppose so."

"In the beginning I thought it was a big fat lie," she admitted. "That they just didn't want to take any risks looking for you in this godforsaken country. I tried to sue them and force them to reveal information they were holding back, but I was meeting brick walls all over. Everybody just wanted to save their own asses."

"Sounds like I missed a good portion of fierce and furious Foster. Wouldn't wanna be your enemy really."

It was only half of the story—strong and fighting Foster—but just like the woman being overwhelmed by the duties of a Lightman Group in just her own hands, she kept the other one to herself. The one who took over on lonely evenings or when she was lying in bed and didn't have anything else to think of. Then sometimes she wondered if all this fighting was worth it.

"Zoe helped a lot, but she was just as powerless when it came to the people high up."

"So she wanted me back as well? Sweet." He grinned a little and she couldn't help but do so as well.

"Did they fly you straight to Boston?"

"No, they brought me to a military base in Germany first for a couple of days. Getting me ready for society or something. Well, mostly they were just asking a lot of questions and tiring me out. But I got a haircut for free."

"Very nice," she agreed.

"I just kept asking when I could see Emily and you, but they were evading. Something that they weren't telling me, but I could see. So I started to believe that something has happened to either of you. Drove me nuts. The worst part should have been over, but the nightmare just wouldn't stop."

She could see the agony in the way he tensely kneaded his fingers and it reminded her so much of her own dark days.

"Did you ever find out what it was? What they were hiding?"

"No." He shook his head slightly. "To be honest, I don't think I wanna know."

She went through some of her own conspiracy theories in her mind, but they never led her anywhere. Maybe it was nothing, and maybe she didn't want to know either. He was here now and somehow she drew nearer to the realization that this was all that really counted.

"You got a psych evaluation there as well?" She wasn't sure if it was a good question to ask, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Yeah, they diagnosed me as a tragic war nutcase right away."

"They clearly didn't know you before." She smiled.

"Also didn't need them to tell me I've been through traumatic experiences that are fucking up my mind." He looked at her through the darkness, concern all over his face. "Are you getting any help?"

She was taken aback by him turning the tables so suddenly. "I'm—no, I'm okay." She had tried. She had tried a lot of things and failed.

He saw how much of a lie that was, she was sure about that. She also remembered his own words just a little earlier. _I'm okay, darling._ Yes, brutal honesty and lies all the same. Nothing will ever change about this simple concept of the world.

But sometimes miracles happen in the bleakest of times and so he put his arm around her shoulders, let her snuggle up closer to him and pressed a light kiss against her temple. "Do you feel better?"

"Yes, somehow."

"I feel better too."


	4. Unseen

**Unseen**

—_I live by the sea  
Not the one you're thinking but the sea inside of me  
It's just a paper dream  
To you unseen—_

He was back there again. On the dirty mattress with just a lousy excuse for a blanket draped over his body. He had gotten a couple of hours of sleep, which was decent enough, but now the sound of roaring thunder had woken him and his eyes were filled with sudden panic. Agitated voices everywhere and rapid flashes of light outside.

They were under attack again.

He looked around the room, but there was absolutely nothing there to hide away or take shelter. This was it. This time, this was it for real. He was desperate. He had lost all hope and belief in mankind. But strangely enough he also didn't want to die.

He pressed his back against the wall and thought of his options, but there weren't any. The voices in the house grew louder, more undistinguishable, and they came closer. Heavy footsteps echoed through the stone floors and he heard explosions nearby.

There was nothing to do except wait. So he closed his eyes and waited for the end. Thinking of them for one last time.

When the door burst open, he was already far away. Somewhere where the pain had faded and where he found peace again. It was probably the reason why he didn't even notice the two man in heavy protective gear picking him up and carrying him out of the room. He still firmly believed that this was the end.

But he opened his eyes at some point, wondering whether this was death already, and only then it hit him that these man didn't look like Taliban or any other kind of criminal you would normally encounter in this part of the world. They looked like soldiers. Like foreign soldiers. Like American soldiers.

He was put back on his own feet and harshly shoved around a corner. Some gunshots deafened him and his brain was too slow to understand. He was pushed around another corner, and another—he tried to remember the layout of the house, but it wouldn't come.

He stumbled, nearly fell. Everything around him was so loud and sudden and so damn incomprehensible. Someone—all masked and disguised, heavily armed—about six or seven steps away gestured him to run, so he ran and fell for real this time when he bumped into a wall after a nearby blast left him disoriented.

He looked around one last time, but his eyes were heavy. He closed them and fell asleep. Still thinking of them. Maybe this was the end, or maybe it wasn't.

When he woke up he didn't know where he was. It freaked him out a little, because everything was unfamiliar, but after a couple of seconds he remembered. It wasn't the helicopter he had woken up in back then.

It was the comfortable warmth of a suburban townhouse furnished with elegant style. White, crisp bed linen, discreet flowery wallpaper, a couple of well-placed decorative items. So much unlike the places he had woken up in in the last few years. So much peace and silence.

He lay there with his eyes open for some time. Outside he could hear the birds singing and a spring breeze rustling through the trees. It took him a while to calm down from living through the memories again. But when he glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed, suddenly he was wide awake. It was half past ten already.

He got up and left the room feeling somehow lost. Everything was quiet and she must have surely left the house to go to work. He would have liked it better to be up early with her instead of sleeping away the day. There were no more days to lose.

After a quick visit to the bathroom he went downstairs to see if there was any coffee and it took him by surprise that he saw her quietly sitting in the kitchen with the day's newspaper. Some fresh flowers were standing on the table as well as an untouched plate and a mug.

She noticed him and smiled. "Good morning."

"Morning." He looked at her and she just kept smiling back. Almost light-years away from the kind of distress he saw yesterday. "Don't you have to be at work?"

"I took the morning off, so I could get some things done. Sarah is taking over some of my appointments. No big deal."

"I'm sorry for sleeping for so long. Didn't even realize it was so late already." His hands were pointing in various directions for no real reason.

She shook her head. "No, no, don't be sorry. I thought you could need some sleep, so I didn't want to wake you."

"My sleep pattern is a little screwed up."

"Do you want breakfast? I have some things you might like."

He eyed her suspiciously. "Oh no you didn't."

"Yes I did," she replied with a grin spreading on her face. She went over to a cupboard and took out a can of baked beans. "There actually is no question about whether you want breakfast or not, because you will have to eat this. I certainly won't."

"You don't know what you're missing, darling."

"I rather never find out."

He sat down and watched while she heated up the beans _(don't boil them, just heat!)_ and prepared some other things. It felt as domestic as it could get and he couldn't help but sensing a recent ease in all of her movements. A huge difference from yesterday even though he knew that the times of struggle were not simply over. Maybe some of them had only just started.

But for now he was happy and smiled at her wrinkling her nose over the smell of the beans flooding the kitchen.

"It's a tiny bit disgusting."

"I'll tell you something about disgusting food another time. Right now I guess you'll have to live with it. Do you still want me to stay?"

"Are you gonna eat something different tomorrow? I only got this one can."

"I'll buy my own one."

"With what kind of money?"

"Good point."

They both smiled and he then ate in silence while she continued reading the paper. From time to time he caught her looking up to watch him or maybe just make sure that he was still here. Everything was so fragile that they probably both feared it would all break and shatter.

When he was finished she got a bag from the counter nearby and handed it to him. "I got a few things for you. It's fine of course if you want to continue using my bathroom stuff, but in case you're up for something more manly."

He had a look inside the bag and nodded gratefully. "I think I can handle more manly."

She looked at her cell phone to check on the time.

"When do you need to be at work?"

"Around twelve."

He contemplated some things for a moment. "Can I come with you? I promise to entertain myself on my own for the afternoon. Could just use a ride into town."

"Yeah, sure."

When he returned to the kitchen some time later—showered and dressed in the other one of the two button-down shirts he owned—she was waiting for him with another surprise.

"I just charged it. It's prepaid and still has some credit on it." He handed him a cell phone; plain and simple, nothing fancy.

"Is it my birthday or something?"

She looked at him; suddenly quite serious. "Maybe something like that." She continued to hold his gaze for some intense seconds. "Also thought it might be good in case we needed to call each other. It has my number on it."

"Thanks."

A few minutes later he was back in her car and she was driving them closer to the city center. He didn't know where her practice was, but he noted that they were going towards Capitol Hill. Nice area, he thought. Somehow suiting her.

Seeing the whole of Washington moving past the window was kind of an odd sensation. He knew it so well and yet he didn't. The feeling of intimacy was lost in the years that had gone by. A little how it felt with Gillian. How it felt with Emily.

"You want me to drop you off anywhere specific?" she asked and looked over to him.

"No, just drive where you need to go. I'll take it from there."

He watched her profile from his point of view and tried to remember. He had done that so often when nobody had looked; when he was alone and the only safe place to go to was his mind. But all of her was just in fragments—shattered like their bond once he boarded that helicopter on the roof of the Lightman Group. And the fragments still remained, even though she was here with him now.

It seemed like he was never able to recall whole scenes, conversations or days. It was always just isolated moments. Maybe the two of them were too complex to stick in his mind in their entirety. Actually, he quite liked that idea.

"Are you okay?" She had noticed his absent-minded gaze.

"Yeah."

"It's just two more blocks."

He shook himself out of the confusion in his mind and thought of something innocuous to say. "Nice neighborhood. Pricey, I guess." He couldn't quite believe that this was what he had opted for.

She looked at him a little skeptical, as if she knew he was just running away from other thoughts. "Yeah, quite. It was easier to share the practice and lower the costs a little this way."

They both knew they weren't really having this conversation. Instead of saying anything else he just waited until she pulled back into a parking space at the side of a small street. They both got out of the car and she led the way to a nice two-storied house with a huge blooming apple tree in front of it.

He followed her to the door and took a look at the sign affixed next to it. _Gillian Foster, PhD, Licensed Psychologist._ Her name was on top, her colleague's below. Overall much smaller, more discreet letters than the ones he remembered his own name written in on the walls of the Lightman Group.

"I assume you have a bigger version of your name somewhere inside?"

For a moment she didn't seem to understand, but as he caught his glance to the label it dawned on her. "It's not really all about size, Cal." She smirked.

"Yeah, you tell me."

He followed her through a small hallway and attached waiting room, watching her open another door to a spacious office overlooking the apple tree. Curious, he walked inside and took in the surroundings. "Wow, very nice."

"It is." She seemed rather proud of it, but also looked a little nervous.

"So where's the couch?"

"I don't really use this kind of technique."

"Ah, pity. But you had a couch when we first met."

"It was a couch to sit on. Or slouch on in your case." She pointed to a sitting area with armchairs in the corner of the room. "I'll be back in a moment, okay."

He nodded and didn't really consider sitting down. Instead he slowly made his way through the office and inspected every inch of it. On her desk he found a few things he remembered from her office at the Group. The hourglass, the silver paperweight, the wooden box of tissues.

To his surprise there were also some things from his own old office. The magnifying glass, one of the wooden statues he had found during his PhD travels. And a very familiar picture frame.

He looked over to the door when he heard some footsteps coming closer. Then he held up the picture and for some seconds ignored the fact that another woman was standing right next to Gillian. "Really?"

"I couldn't bear just throwing her out."

"His name was Frank."

"It's Isabelle in my world."

"You could have put up a picture of me."

"I opted for the dog." She smiled the smile from the days back then and memories suddenly hit him hard. Not just fragments this time—their whole shared life instead. The quipping, the teasing, the tension. By now he had forgotten that there was someone else in the room with them and it really didn't matter.

"Sarah, that's Cal," she said to the smallish, dark-haired woman next to her and put the world back into perspective.

Sarah came closer to shake his hand. "Who would have thought? Welcome back to Washington and so good to meet you! I read all of your books."

"Hi. I'm doing autographs later."

Gillian walked up to the desk as well and rolled her eyes. "Can you behave?" she asked him and took the picture from his hand to put it back down on the table. "And not touch everything?"

He smiled at his regained ability to push the right buttons and studied Sarah for a moment. "Nice practice," he praised politely and got a pleased look from Gillian that he saw from the corner of his eye.

"Thank you," Sarah replied and looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, I'm so short on time. I have an appointment right now, but I hope to see you again sometime. Better not think about disappearing once more." Her eyes went back and forth between him and Gillian.

"I'm trying not to," he joked and managed a grin before Sarah left the room and he was alone with Gillian again. He watched her move behind the desk and put some things he had apparently messed up back in order.

"I have a patient too. You're going to be okay on your own?" She took out a file from her desk drawer and busied herself with it for a bit before looking back to him again.

"Sure." His gaze went back to the picture frame with the dog and he couldn't help but still finding it odd that she had put it on her desk. "Why did you keep that one?" he asked, this time quite sincere.

"I don't know. Reminded me of you without exactly being you, I guess."

So it was really about remembering with keeping the hurt at bay. He understood that tactic just too well and nodded. "Well, I'm glad he lives on."

"I'm glad you do, too."

His heart skipped a short beat at the sound of her emotions underneath the simple words. He thought of something to say, but instead he settled on a short hug before he could possibly destroy it all with an evading joke.

She looked at him while still holding on to his forearms. "How about I call you when I'm finished here and we go to the storage unit together to see what you might want to get."

"Sounds good," he agreed.

She let go of him and opened her purse, rummaging through it and finally handing him a couple of bills from her wallet.

"Is this my pocket money?"

"Yes. No sweets."

"Baked beans?"

"If they also come without the smell, buy all you want."

He smiled and then left her behind in the new life she had built. The one without him.


	5. Blamed

**Blamed**

_—But you shake the ground  
You rearrange the sunsets and terrorize this town  
And it's you I blame  
When I crash paper planes—_

He walked around like a stranger. Like someone who didn't belong here. Someone who was dead, long forgotten and not even visible to all the people rushing through the streets only minding their own business.

He knew this city by heart—but now his heart wasn't in it and maybe that was the problem. He passed all those familiar places and felt nothing. Some memories here and there, but zero emotion he could link to them. It was a numb walk through the past.

And his mood was back down again—he felt like he had exhausted his daily limit of smiles and jokes and the heaviness of the past was dragging him back there. Down, where he didn't want to be, but probably belonged. Down and depressed in this city of all things, where everything was about getting higher up and making your peers rage with jealousy once you've achieved it. It didn't mean a thing to him now.

At first he wandered around without any aim, but soon enough his feet took over and decided where to go. He felt a little guilty that the first thing he bought with Gillian's lent money was a double bourbon at a shady bar downtown. It burned all the way down his throat, just the way he wanted it to.

He thought of her again sitting there. Of the few hours they had spent together in this new era—of powerlessness, of despair, of hopelessness, of pain. Mixed with a little of the taste of better days. But he knew they were far from it and might always be.

After a while and a second round of drinks he took out the cell phone Gillian had given him. He just toyed with it for a while until he retrieved the small piece of paper from his other jeans pocket and began to punch in the numbers—slowly, one after another, as if he still considered ending it before he had put them all in.

He pressed the phone to his ear and waited. Another drink would have been good, he thought while it rang.

"Landau." She already sounded exasperated before he had even said anything. Probably a client. Or life simply going wrong.

"Hi, it's me." She wouldn't need his name or anything.

There was some silence on her part and he counted the seconds up to a point where he simply picked up his glass again and drowned the rest of the bourbon.

"I can't decide if this is a good or a bad thing," she said finally.

"Yeah, me neither. But thanks for the encouraging, love-filled words."

"It's good to hear you, Cal, it really is." She waited for a beat and he knew she meant it. "But you don't know what happened here those last few years."

There was a sharp pain that shot right through his heart. "Did Emily call you about this?"

"Yes, she did. She was happy. And devastated."

"It seems we all are." He didn't know if he could do this. Go on having this conversation with her. Go on remembering his meeting with Emily two days ago. What he had told Gillian about it was just half of the truth. The other half was filled with pain and blame.

"Probably so," she concluded grimly. "How are you?"

"Still alive. Apart from that—it could be better." No sense in lying to her or lying to himself.

"You're staying with Gillian?"

"Yeah." He was kind of astonished by the soberness of the call, of her words and reactions, but it somehow fit into his numbness. Maybe it was better that way. "I'm proud of you for not killing each other while I was away. Thanks for helping her out."

She sighed a little. "Once you realize that you both lost somebody very important to you, there's no sense in fighting about that person. We helped each other; it's the best we could do."

"I'm sorry about the things that happened."

"I'm sorry about the things that happened to you too."

She sounded sad and weary and almost not like the person he knew and had been so close to for many years. The memories were distant and as fragmented as those about Gillian. He remembered taking Zoe and a tiny Emily to the park to feed ducks and didn't know why it made him teary-eyed all of a sudden.

"I'm coming down to D.C. in about three weeks for some business," she explained and stopped his journey back in time. "Can I see you then?"

"Sure. Let me know when you're free. Should be reachable on this number."

She waited again. "What now, Cal?"

"I don't have the faintest idea. I guess time will tell." He didn't feel like time would help with anything at the moment, but he hoped this wouldn't be the case forever.

"Have you called Emily again?"

There was a tiny moment in which he thought about lying. "No, not yet."

"You have her number, right? Call her. She felt bad about some of the things she might have said."

"She shouldn't."

"Then tell her that."

He didn't reply, but he knew she was right. Still, he didn't know if he could do it. It felt like such a hard thing to do, but maybe it would help with lifting the burden.

"Listen, I gotta go. Call me if you need me, okay? Anytime."

"Will do."

"Take care, Cal."

"You too."

And that was the end. So very different than he had thought. Maybe he should just stop expecting anything from a world he didn't know anymore.

He ordered a third drink, because he believed it might help with the courage to call Emily, but it just made him feel more pathetic instead. And so he didn't pick up the phone again. He let it slide back into the safety of his jeans pocket and stared at the run-down interior of the bar instead. He wasn't alone and he figured that everyone else here at this time of a beautiful day must be as much in pieces as him.

After about an hour he was able to finally get up and step out of the door into the harsh sunlight. He squinted a little, but the pain was kind of good to feel. It was something after all.

His feet took him to the World War II Memorial this time, where he sat down to watch the Reflecting Pool, the eager tourists unfolding maps, Lincoln Memorial in the background. It was nice in a way that he didn't have too many thoughts racing through his mind for once. It made the time go faster and soon enough his phone rang with Gillian on the other end.

"Hi. Where are you?" she asked.

"Down at the World War II Memorial."

"I'll get you on 17th Street then. Might be ten minutes or so."

A look on his watch (_the one they had given him in Germany—God, he hoped it wasn't a dead man's one_) told him that it was almost exactly ten minutes, as if she had timed it. When it came to Gillian Foster steady reliability was still a defining quality and probably something he needed badly in his life right now.

She stopped at the side of the road and he got in. The radio way playing quietly in the background.

"What did you do?" she wanted to know and examined him out of the corner of her eyes in a way that left him a little uncomfortable.

"Just walking around."

"And a bar happened to be on the way?"

He gave her a look, but didn't know what to say. He didn't think she would smell it, but obviously she did. Or maybe it was just written all over his face.

"Next time just invite me along for drinks." A slight smile was on her lips.

They drove in silence out to Silver City where she parked in front of a big self-storage building inside an industrial park. Side by side they entered the building and took an elevator up to the third floor. When they got out, a long corridor lay in front of them with storage units left and right.

"It's just over there," she said and led the way to unit number 327. She took a key out of her purse and opened the padlock.

He helped her getting up the roller shutter and stood still for a moment to take in what he saw. It was a big part of his old life, neatly arranged and left there for ensuing ages. He saw some furniture that he had particularly liked, his collection of statues, masks and other art from all over the world, a rack with clothes in suit bags, books from his office and house, boxes duly labeled.

It spoke volumes of how much they all couldn't let go.

He turned to her. "It's just missing a life-size cardboard standup of me."

She smiled back. "I wish I would have had one."

He walked inside the small space while she turned on an additional light. His fingertips lightly touched some of the objects and he inspected the writings on the boxes in order to find out what more treasures he might rediscover here.

She just watched him from behind and remained standing near the entrance.

After some time of getting used to the fact that there was still something left of his old life, he turned around to her and gave her a grateful smile. "Where's the box labeled _'porn'_?"

"I looked really hard, but I didn't find any. Would you believe it? We were all surprised and wondered if we had known you at all."

"I hid it very well. Maybe I'll found a new company that creates a business model out of discretely removing porn stashes in cases of acute emergency or death. What do you think?"

"As long as you're not asking me to be your partner again." She moved closer to him and opened one of the boxes to his right hand side. "There are some more clothes in here. You want to look through the stuff and we're taking home what you want for now? We can come back for more later of course."

He nodded and had a look at the contents of the box she had just opened. Black sweaters, polos and shirts. Some jeans as well. He suddenly had a weird picture of people going through his underwear drawer in his head, but he kept that part to himself.

They ended up taking the box with the clothes that still had enough room for some additional items he wanted to collect for now. He made his way through all of the boxes and even found some memories he had forgotten about. She just quietly helped him with sorting through things and getting other stuff out of the way.

It was a folder containing pictures that Emily had drawn when she was a child that undid him. At least for a short time. He flipped through the pages of family drawings, weird dreams, or just random doodling and his heart sank. That time would never come back and even now looking back—with everything that had happened—it had an ugly stain that just couldn't be removed.

He didn't want her to see his anguish, so he busied himself with a box farther away from her. But she probably noticed anyway.

After a while his breathing had evened out again, though everything was still unsettling and he knew that it would continue to be until he simply took Zoe's advice and called Emily.

He considered his next move for a moment, but then he just went for it. "Hey, can I ask you something and you'll promise to give me an honest answer?"

She looked at him. "Of course."

"Do you blame me?"

She looked away and pretended to search for something in particular. "I don't know. It's not a simple answer."

"You promised to be honest," he insisted.

She thought about it for a bit, still looking away from him, but in the end she faced him again—with much more sincere intensity than before.

"The truth is: Yes, I probably do. As much as I blamed you for gambling away a million dollars in Vegas or repeatedly risking the future of our company or even your life with other reckless behavior. But I also know that this is who you are. I knew it right from the beginning and you've never hidden that fact. You didn't go to Afghanistan thinking or knowing this would happen. You went there to help someone and the thrill of it was an added bonus that drove you there. I can't hate you for that."

He just held her gaze for a long time. "Thank you," he then said quietly.

She inched closer to him and put a warm, soothing hand on his arm. "What's on your mind?" The pain, she could surely see it.

"Em. She was happy. Hell, I was happy. But she also blames me for it."

"Did she say that?"

"She said, maybe it would have been better if I hadn't returned. If the story had just been done. I don't think she meant it the way she said it, but still, the meeting didn't end so well. They didn't let me go with her and it was all so rushed and—I don't know. I feel awful about it."

Her hand didn't leave him, creating a feeling of intimacy once again. The kind he had missed most during all those years. "She was deeply hurt, Cal. Still is. It was incredibly hard on her and even though we all struggled, I don't think anybody can quite comprehend what she went through. Give her some time. But don't let her go."

She was right—which she was most of the time really—but it was still hard to accept. He had always hoped that Emily was able to move on, but he knew that it was just an illusion held up from a faraway place where he couldn't change a damn thing. "How bad was it?"

"Bad," she just replied and rather left the exact ramifications to his imagination. "Everybody tried to hold it together for her sake."

"Damn." There wasn't much else to say about that.

"Let's go home." She held out her hand, so he would take it.

"Yeah." One thing was still on his mind, though, and he took one last look around. "Did you by any chance see a wooden box somewhere? About the size of a shoebox. Carved ornament on top."

She didn't need to think about it, it seemed. "Yes, but it's not here. I took it with me when we cleared out the house. It's at home."

At least that was a small relief. "It was my mother's, you know." One of the few things he really had left of her and something that meant a lot to him. She smiled at him wistfully.

And then he took the cardboard box, containing a small part of his old life, while she closed the shutter roller and returned the rest of what remained to the imminent darkness.


	6. Torn

**Torn**

—_If only I knew from the start  
You'd tear right through my paper heart—_

He couldn't quite believe that it was so late again when he woke up. For half of the night he had been awake, only to find a few peaceful hours of sleep when the day for most people in this city was already beginning.

Now he felt like having been the center of an explosion again. Everything in rubbles and torn apart. His head was aching with echoes of weird dreams that kept him prisoner wherever he went. He wanted to let them go, but his thoughts went back there as if they refused to forget.

It took him some time to get out of bed and take the steps down to the kitchen. A glass of cold water helped with the unbearable heat inside of him, but not with much else. He stared out of the window and saw how the weather had decided to reflect his mood a little more. Gray, heavy clouds filled with unexpected showers of grievous raindrops went by and the wind was shaking the leaves of nearby trees. Gone were the blue skies of the last two days.

He found her note on the kitchen counter a little later.

_Gone to work and will see you later. Call me if you need anything. Meanwhile, made a little to-do list for you:_

_1. Eat breakfast  
2. Have a look at the coffee table in the living room  
3. Call Emily_

_Quite easy, eh? (I could have added 'house cleaning', so don't complain.) – G_

He smiled and kept looking at the effortless twirl of her _'G'_, reminding him that once things were carefree and not loaded with incidents of the past. But then again, he was probably just making that up and kidding himself. Nothing had ever been carefree—not with him, not with the loads he carried anyway.

He didn't really bother with breakfast and just ate some cereal he found in one of her cupboards. With the bowl he went over to the living room and sat down on the sofa to inspect the wooden box he saw on the coffee table. It was the one he had asked her about and it was just like he remembered it. His fingers slowly traced the carved ornament on top. Only after some time he lifted the lid off the box and found that it wasn't empty.

She had not just taken the item to put it somewhere on display—she had used it for actual memories. Inside he found photographs taken of the two of them. Some posing, some just fleeting moments. Smiles mostly. A letter he had written her after the events in the Pentagon back then. Some notes he didn't even remember giving her. A small silvery talisman that used to be hidden inside a drawer of his desk.

His heart hurt all over again. He closed the box and breathed slowly.

He went up to take a shower and get dressed—and to get some distance between himself and the box of memories that remained heavy on the table of the living room. He returned back to the kitchen sometime later with the cell phone in his hands.

Again, it took him some time to build up the courage he needed, and at first he just sat there staring at the phone display as if something would miraculously happen. He then got up again and searched for the telephone directory he knew she kept somewhere in the hall. Soon he found the number he was looking for, even though it was only a mere starting point.

He dialed the numbers and went back to the kitchen.

"United States Department of State, my name is Jennifer Robinson. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, this is Cal Lightman. I need to speak to Frank Mulley."

"Mr. Lightman, I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to transfer you through to Mr. Mulley directly. I can put you through to his assistance at the Bureau of Intelligence and Research though. You might want to discuss any further inquiries with them."

"Okay. Thanks." Not what he wanted, but he had feared that this might be the case.

He waited until another female voice greeted him. "This is Alice Mayer. How can I help you?"

"Hi, it's Cal Lightman. I would like to speak to Frank Mulley, but I don't have his extension on hand."

"I'm afraid Mr. Mulley is not taking phone calls. Is there any matter I can take up with him?"

"No, I need to talk to him directly."

"Are you acquainted?"

"Yes, we are. Can you at least let him know I called and give him my number?"

"Yes of course. Mr. Lightman it was, right? I can see your number on the display." She went quiet for some seconds to take a note of his details. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"No thanks."

He ended the call and let his head sink into his propped up hands. He remembered how even this call was just an evasion. Everything to not having to hear Emily's disappointed voice again.

To his surprise it only took about five minutes until his phone rang with an unknown number. "Lightman," he said when taking the call.

"So the rumors are true?" a familiar Mulley said on the other end.

"They're saying Jesus got resurrected? Not true, I can reassure you."

"I'm glad you're back, Cal. Good job by the CIA I hear. Are you alright?"

"To be fair, the CIA was looking for someone else. But I'm okay." No need to go into details. He had a business after all.

"Should I be honored that I'm amongst the first you're calling or am I just a means to an end?"

"That's such an ugly way of putting it."

Mulley laughed and didn't seem too offended. "How can I help you?"

He swallowed hard before collecting his thoughts and putting them out there for Mulley to hear. "I was wondering if you could activate some contacts and get me information on the whereabouts of someone."

"Someone abroad?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I can try of course, but I can't promise anything."

"Sure. Her name is Zuleikha Mazari. She was supposed to cross the border from Afghanistan to Iran with her husband. He's some kind of trader, possibly high up. I just need to know where she's now; if she's safe." Saying it out loud felt kind of weird and wrong.

Mulley was quiet for a bit. "Can I ask you what this is about?" he then inquired.

"It's just important to me. Just knowing." He waited for some seconds in which Mulley didn't speak. "Look, if you can't help with that, then that's alright. I don't want to cause any trouble or put you in an impossible situation. You were just the only one I could think of."

"No, don't worry. I'll see what I can do and get back to you."

"Thanks, Frank." It was as much as he could have hoped for.

"Guess I still owe you that one."

"I'll talk to you soon then. Thanks again and bye."

He hung up and stared into nothingness, while his mind was back in a country he might have loved and hated all at the same time. It was a feeling he wasn't able to describe, but one that was there and incredibly real. He thought of breathtaking landscapes and hospitable people—and he thought of destroyed beauty and unbelievable cruelty.

It might have been another hour or so that he sat there and remained paralyzed by memories. But eventually he had to snap out of it and face the reality he had now. It was no good avoiding Emily any longer and he knew how it would only make him feel worse.

So after some deep breaths he took up the phone again and called the number he had memorized by now already. The abandoned attempts of calling her so far had left him with that much at least.

The dialing tone was making him even more nervous and it went on for so long that he started to think that ending it now would probably be the best choice. But it was when he had nearly given up that her voice finally rang through his head, sweet and pure as he remembered it.

"Hello?" She sounded a bit out of breath.

"Hi, darling." His own voice sounded strange as well.

"Dad! I'm so glad you're calling!"

"Am I interrupting anything? Don't wanna bother you."

"No, no! I'm at home, getting ready for some classes this afternoon. I just forgot my cell in the kitchen and had to run for it."

"Oh, okay." He thought about how to get across his point for a moment, but in the end he decided to just opt for the truth. Enough lies that had been told. "Look, I'm sorry for not having called any earlier. Everything was kind of overwhelming and I chickened out of it to be honest. Really sorry about that."

"Dad?" she asked unsure and when he closed his eyes it was his little girl standing right back there in front of him. The one he had sworn to protect and fight for with every last bit of his own life. "I'm so sorry about the things I said. I didn't mean to hurt you." She sounded close to tears.

"You have nothing to be sorry about, love. I understand. It's all good, don't worry."

She pulled herself together again, but he heard that she was still fighting tears. He didn't know whether he could handle more heartbreak.

"It was just the way you left back then," she explained. "Why didn't you tell me? I never had the chance to say goodbye."

"I didn't want this to be goodbye and I didn't want you to worry. It might not have been the right choice, but it was with good intentions."

"I love you, Dad." She was crying now.

"I love you, too. I thought of you every minute of every day." He gave her a moment to calm down again and remembered holding her as a tiny baby and gently cradling her until the last of her sobs subsided and she fell into a peaceful sleep. It was so long ago. Another lifetime.

"Are you staying with Gillian?"

"Yes, I'm at her house. She gave me this phone for now. You can call me on this number."

"Can we see each other again soon?"

"Of course. I'm trying to get up to Boston for the weekend, so we can spend some time together. Is that alright?" He hadn't made precise plans yet, but he was going to talk to Gillian about it. After all he still didn't have any of his own money and was probably depending on her.

"That's great."

"I'll let you know."

And then they said their goodbyes and made sure once again the other one was alright. He wanted to cry when he put away the phone, but he also felt much better and somehow able to move on with some things. He needed to know that they were alright. Or at least close enough.

He went on to read the newspaper when just some minutes later the doorbell rang. It left him wondering whether he should open up, but in the end he did and saw a face he rather wanted to forget.

"Wow, so soon. You missed me that much?"

Agent Cole just stood there untouched and like the solid rock Cal remembered him to be from just two days ago. "You need to come with me," he simply stated.

"Where to? Vegas? I love Vegas, but I'm a little shy and can't marry you just yet. We barely know each other."

He remained unimpressed. "Langley. Now."

Cal didn't like his tone of voice and he certainly hated his slick attitude. The meaning of the words coming out of his mouth didn't make it any better. "Last time I checked, I was a free man for a change. What's this about?"

"Orders from Henderson. I can't give you any specifics, but he wants to talk to you."

"God, you guys are really annoying." He closed the door in Cole's face and went back to the kitchen to get the cell phone. While Cole was already pounding on the door, he wondered whether to call Gillian, but he decided to not worry her before he even knew what was up. He went back to the door and opened it to an exasperated Cole and another bulky looking guy he hadn't seen before.

"You brought your bodyguard as well?" Cal asked and eyed up the tall, bald man looking down at him with a grim expression on his face.

"Get in the car," Cole just instructed and pointed to the black sedan parked prominently in front of the house.

He did as he was told, but deliberately much slower than they were expecting him to do it. He kind of enjoyed the annoyed looks on their faces. It took him a good minute to finally settle in the backseat and buckle up.

During the drive out to Langley it started to rain again. Big, heavy drops that collided with the window he was staring out of. It made the city look like an ugly place of concrete buildings and little joy. It probably wasn't about to get better, he thought.

At the CIA headquarters he had to pass all the security checks again. They took the phone off of him and he protested, but it didn't help. Defeated he just threw it into the box they had provided. He was led to an interrogation room again—this time obviously having earned one above earth and with actual windows.

And then that was it. For five long and tedious hours. They just let him sit there in an empty room and refused to answer any questions. He was on his own for most of the time—just somebody bringing him water or asking if he needed anything from time to time. He was furious first. And then he just felt like losing his mind. It was being a prisoner all over again.

He didn't know what game they were playing, but he knew it was one. There was a purpose to him sitting here for hours and hours with no outside contact and not even the slightest clue why he was here. He knew there was a camera in the corner on the ceiling, but he tried to not look at it and let them see anything they might have been waiting for. In the end he just resigned and pulled the chair up to the window to look outside.

After five hours Henderson entered the room. Tall and gray-haired, his suit a little ill-fitting, but with the authority of many, many years. He moved over to the table in the middle of the room, however, he remained on the other side, separated from Cal, who was still sitting by the window.

Cal took a short look at him. "You wankers," he just murmured and it was really rather calm for what he had been through and what he was actually thinking.

"Sorry to let you wait, Dr. Lightman. Something came up."

"Yeah?" He met him with disbelief. "Look, I don't care what this is about, but let me call my friend."

"You can call her later, I promise."

Funny that he already assumed he was talking about Foster. "She'll be worried."

Henderson ignored his plea and pointed to the table. "I need you to take a look at something and tell me what you know."

Cal remained where he was—at a safe distance. "I thought we were done with that. I told the guys in Germany everything I know. Then I repeated it all for you here again. I'm not your puppet. And I wasn't over there for more than four years, because I liked it so fucking much." He spat the last couple of words at him.

"Well, I'm sorry, but this is something new that was brought to our attention. Have a look at it." He pointed to the table again and with a roll of his eyes Cal got up and moved over with the chair, so he sat behind the table like a naughty schoolboy with the headmaster towering over him.

There was the slightest of a vicious smile on Henderson's face. Spitefulness. He threw a blurry photograph on the table in front of Cal. "Is that you?"

Cal looked at it for just a split second and breathed in heavily, before he collected himself again and looked up to Henderson. "Well, what do you think?" he only asked.

"I think it's you."

He had fourteen missed calls from Gillian when they gave him back his cell phone more than an hour later.


	7. Used

**Used**

She really didn't know what to make of all of this. She felt like crying again after having been so damn worried and then him refusing to talk to her about what had happened. She knew he had been at Langley again and that they had taken his phone for some hours, but that was about it.

A cab had brought him home and she had embraced him like she never wanted to let go again, but he had just squirmed free of her touch and avoided her eyes. He had not eaten anything and instead disappeared into his room after a conversation that really wasn't.

She couldn't eat either; that's how worried and oddly disappointed she was. She went to bed early instead and now lay awake for what felt like hours already. In her mind she made up the most awful kind of stories of what was going on, but it just brought her nowhere. Her heart was pounding fast and the place somewhere beneath her breastbone had started aching again.

Thirty more minutes went by, but sleep didn't come. So she went down the stairs and already saw the flicker of the TV before she had even entered the living room. He was slouched down on the couch in his pajama bottoms and a white shirt, staring at the muted TV, her laptop next to him.

She just looked at him for a while and realized that he was watching a mindless homeshopping program. But he seemed to just look through it while something entirely different was going on in his head.

She carefully cleared her throat and made sure he heard her while she approached. She dropped down next to him on the couch and took another look at the TV screen.

"They're still trying to sell this George Foreman grill?" he asked quietly and she was a tiny bit relieved, because it was at least the attempt of saying something light.

"It's improved now. You would know if you didn't watch it on mute."

He flashed a lazy and tired smile at her. Then his eyes went back to the screen and she knew it was because he was avoiding her again. "I'm sorry about earlier," he said.

She didn't want to say that it was okay, because it wasn't. So she begged for the truth instead. "Please tell me what's going on. I'm worried about you."

He nodded as if he understood, but couldn't bring himself to grant her the wish just yet. "I'm sorry," he repeated, but it sounded different. Sadder and loaded with more pain and regret. Like he was sorry for something that was yet to come.

He remained still for some moments, but eventually he took her computer into his lap, opened it and pressed a few keys. Then he handed the laptop over to her, saying nothing.

His eyes went back to the TV while she examined the screen. It was a New York Times article from nearly three years ago. It was about an execution massacre with many dead in an abandoned stadium in Qalat, Afghanistan. One of the victims was thought to be an American prisoner of war.

She read the whole article and expected to find an obvious clue, but there wasn't any. "I don't understand," she admitted and looked at him for help.

"I was there." He left it at this simple statement, still looking at the TV and yet with no interest at all.

"But you're not the one who died." She was still confused and looked back at the article, reading much too complicated sentences for this time of the night, trying to make sense of them, finding the missing link.

"No, I was the executioner." His voice was grim and the expression on his face almost ice-cold. Only after a few moments he finally turned to her again and let her see his eyes burning with self-loathing.

She shook her head and drew in some shaky breaths—the things she saw on his face leaving her with some kind of fear. Maybe fear of him; or maybe much more fear _for_ him. Her hands still clasped the laptop, but her brain was none the wiser. "How?" she just managed to ask.

His eyes went blank until he closed them, evening out his breathing. They were still closed when he started speaking. "One morning, they got me out of a dark room I had spent the night in. The bright light burned in my eyes and I got disoriented while they shoved me into the back of a truck and put a hood over my head." He opened his eyes then and she saw that he was reliving every second of it.

"They hadn't broken me yet," he continued. "I was still fighting at that point; kicking and screaming—figuratively. They didn't have my trust and I didn't have theirs. It had been some time in captivity, but I had no intention of cooperating with them and helping them with their dirty business."

She carefully closed the laptop again and put it aside. Her hands were shaking slightly and he looked down at them, but didn't do anything. His gaze just went over to his own hands, the knuckles white from the fists he was making. He slowly loosened the grip.

"We drove, we stopped somewhere, they made me go in a direction I couldn't see. When they pulled the hood off my head I was in a stadium crumbled away by the war. There was a line of people in front of me. Seventeen people, all with black hoods as well, on their knees and with their hands tied behind their backs. Some more people with old Russian machine guns next to me. I just looked around and understood nothing. But I could guess that something ugly was about to happen."

She could as well. It made the air in the room heavy and her heart ache with a pain that surely wasn't at its worst yet. Nothing would ever be the same again. If she needed one last bit of convincing that that was the bitter truth, then this was it. Him sitting here, telling her about the cruelties of a world that tore them apart. "I'm sorry," she whispered, but she couldn't be sure why.

For a moment his eyes were filled with a warmth that had seemed lost in the past couple of minutes. "Don't be," he said gently and searched her face. "Do you want me to go on?"

"Yes." It wasn't a very convincing answer, but not knowing would probably be just as haunting.

"I told you that they had found out who I was, what I did for a living, right?"

She nodded.

"They wanted to use me for their crimes, but I had refused to cooperate until then. So while I was standing there, a guy I knew as Hassan ordered me to finally prove whether all this lie detection nonsense is true. He would pull the hood off one guy, ask him a few questions I didn't even understand, and then have me decide if the prisoner was lying or not. If I concluded he was lying, he would be shot right then and there. Those were the rules," he said matter-of-factly.

Her breaths were shallow and didn't seem to fill her lungs with enough air. She couldn't even begin to imagine what it must felt like to have been there. "Why do people do such things?" she asked quietly, but she didn't expect an answer. She had seen her fair share of ferocity and despite holding several degrees when it comes to decoding the human psyche, she would never be able to understand.

"You know, they have a saying in Afghanistan: Those who know nothing about love are the ones who go to war. Maybe it's true, maybe not."

She contemplated his words for a while and they brought her to a strange place which had nothing to do with the story he was just telling her. A place where he kissed her cheek again, the scent of his cologne slowly drifting away._ Bye, darling._

"I told them that I couldn't do it. That the science wasn't exact anyway and that I just couldn't do it. One guy fired a shot that missed my head by a few inches. When I continued telling them to go fuck themselves, he fired another shot that didn't miss my foot this time."

She gasped, but the world kept turning. The clock on the bookshelf still ticked with a steadfast routine and the muted TV still tried to sell stuff that nobody really needed.

"I'll spare you the details, but they shot eleven men right in front of me." He sounded sober and distant again, but she knew this was only a way of coping. "I'm pretty sure they simply put the rest of them in a lorry, drove them to another godforsaken place and shot them too. It was just a demonstration for me. The death sentence had already been put upon every single one of them." He looked at her. "Not that it makes it any better."

She didn't know what to say—about this or anything. A lonely tear ran down her cheek and she just couldn't stop it. He saw it and came closer to gently wipe it away with his hand. "I'm the one who is sorry," he let her know and put some effort in a smile.

"What does it have to do with the CIA? Did they bring you in because of this?" When it came to connecting the dots, she still felt lost.

"They have pictures somebody took inside the stadium. Grainy, blurry mobile phone pictures. I can be seen in some of them."

She shook her head, because still, this was not getting any clearer in her head. "But you're the victim, too. They forced you to do that. Are they blaming you for something you did in captivity?"

He smiled and she instantly knew it was because he somehow admired her innocence when it came to things like that. Despite everything—despite what the years had done to her. It still was who she was and who she would always be.

"Well, they want me to work with them in order to find more of the Al-Qaeda masterminds and kingpins. The people who were involved in this massacre are responsible for a lot more as well. They think I have significant insider knowledge that would make me a valuable asset."

"But you don't, have you?" It's what she wanted to believe and her voice was begging him to reconfirm.

He shook his head. "I don't. I shared with them everything I know."

"And they are still after you?"

"They're desperate for intelligence. For knowledge they can present to the government, demonstrating that they know how to do their job and pretending they have everything under control. Henderson made it clear that they will try to press any kind of charges if I'm not cooperating. If I'm not working with them. For all they know, I helped killing an American in that stadium."

She was shocked at his blunt words. It was four and a half years ago all over again. People using people in an endless cycle of rage and despair. "They can't do that."

He put his hand on hers and squeezed it. "We're at a war against terror, love. They think they can do anything. The terrorists don't play by any rules, so they don't either."

That might be the truth, but nothing she wanted to accept so easily. "Are you willing to work with them?" she probed, but felt like she already knew the answer.

"No," he replied and held her relentless gaze. "I can't go to these places over and over again."

Just as she couldn't go back to her memories of him—of _them_—over and over again throughout the years. And yet she did and had wished she could just stop. But things never were so easy. "Then don't. We'll find a way."

"I wish we did." He didn't sound very convinced and instead oddly tired of fighting. Not like the guy who ran against every kind of authority and never backed down; who would sink his teeth into wrongfulness of this kind like an aggressive British pit bull that couldn't be shaken off. He did not sound like the guy she used to know.

It was a harsh truth to face, but it was also still the middle of the night and she finally felt tired. The whirlwind of his story had sucked the last bit of life out of her and she felt like lying down to fall into a long and dreamless sleep that would somehow make things better. Her eyes were heavy and her limbs faint. He probably felt the same way judging by the way he looked.

With some last effort she pointed to the wooden box that was still on the coffee table. "Is that the one you were looking for?" She knew it was.

"Yeah, thanks." His eyes seemed to trace the carefully carved ornament. "You keep it."

She looked at him confused. "It's yours. I thought it was special to you."

He nodded. "It is. But I want you to have it."

"Are you sure?"

"You know, sometimes things that are important to us become important to somebody else. It's happened with this thing before. Maybe it's the magic of it." He grinned and she was glad he still could.

She should have taken out the memories that were stored inside, because this way it simply was a little unfair. She realized that. But then again—the box now was home to all the pictures and keepsakes and it would have been a lie to take them from it.

He knew that as well as she did.

* * *

**A/N: Hi everybody! Many thanks for reading my story so far and an even bigger thank you to everybody who reviewed and left such nice, encouraging words! Unfortunately, I have decided that I'm going to pause the story here, until I have figured out where to go with this. I started posting the fic with several finished chapters up my sleeve, however, I kind of ran out of steam and motivation and have not been writing enough in order to keep up with the weekly updates. Also, I'm not really happy with the whole thing right now. Until I've decided whether the story will go the route I had originally intended for it, or whether I will shorten it down with the chapters I have, I need some time. Sorry for any disappointment this may cause. _—whathobertie_**


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